


Happyfun Kismesis Times (:

by technicolorCarbon



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Beating, Blood, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Dirty Talk, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 07:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4339790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicolorCarbon/pseuds/technicolorCarbon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"One day, in an au, a dream bubble, what have you, Gamzee should just, totally dominate Dave. Bind him down, beat his ass and then fuck him, hard, talking dirty the whole time. Dave the meanwhile just, begrudgingly loves every second of it, every, damn second, even though he's a total brat and tries to play cool like it doesn't hurt and he's not totally going crazy on the inside. After all that's done though they snuggle up and pass insults back and forth. This is mostly just a suggestion though, feel free to run with it where you like."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happyfun Kismesis Times (:

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZCFilorux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZCFilorux/gifts).



It’s a Karkat what first told you; the bubbles you’re in are all coming up in contact with a real-live (or dead, which is more accurate) set of others, a billion and ten bubbles all out there floating in paradox space like a solid pocket of miracles. Not a thing what should be able to survive out here, but you do—you and your friends, and the humans with them and your dancestors—and you praise the Messiahs every day for letting it up and be so perfect. Now you’re gonna come up on some more, and meet more fuckers to get friendly with, and it’s the freshest blessing of your afterlife. You’re set up with a fuckin’ pile to go and an alchemizer full of grist because you are _all about_ makin’ more friends (plus you can’t be assed to find the cooler what floats around sometimes, but you know snacks be a motherfucking _requisite_ in hangouts).

There’s a bright spot of color outside the wall—yours is one of the edge bubbles, so part of it just hangs off into open space- and you squint and stand up close to the spot—then the wall of the bubble shimmers and breaks sudden, like it does when somebody comes from straight out-fuckin’-side, and you get to be chin-to-nose with Dave Strider. Miracles just don’t cease. Delivered your blackest motherfuckin’ kismesis, right up into your lap. You flick his nose and start to turn away, like he ain’t shit, and he clears his throat like he’s got something to say.

“What, motherfucker?” You turn back to him, shoulders raised to your ears in the biggest fucking shrug you know how to make. “What?” Dave squares his shoulders, tries to glare at you all fierce-like, and you laugh in his face. Then you backhand him.

“What the absolute, clowny _fuck_ ,” he says, flat as anything, even with his stupid glasses hanging off of his face. It don’t make any motherfucking sense at all to be dimming your treasured sense of vision with dark glass up in your face- lookspheres are straight from the fuckin’ messiahs, first thing you learned back in your days as a slimy li’l fuckin’ wriggler just starting to understand the ways of the carnival- and every time you see those fucking bits of cheap plastic on the pale-skinned human you want to tear them off and snap them in half.

You step up to Dave, towering over him while he’s still flat on his ass, but it’s only when the blond goes to open his mouth that you plant a foot in the centre of his chest and _push_. “Don’t,” you warn. “Don’t even motherfucking think about it.”

Dave’s hands wrap around your ankle, which prompts you to haul off and hit him again, twice, until he’s sprawled back on the floor again. Clearly, he ain’t learned his place just yet, and you need to remind him. “I like you right the motherfuck there, bro. On the floor, where you fuckin’ belong.”

“Did you just roll off the ‘beat up Dave’ side of the ‘coon this morning or what?” He’s rubbing blood off his mouth like his lip ain’t still split to bleed more onto him, and the fucking shades have skittered away to some dark corner where they can’t piss you off any more. You offer him a hand, suddenly, right as he’s drawing breath for more of his broken-mouth words, and he cuts off sharply, squinting up at you.

His suspicion is rightfully earned, ‘cause the minute he offers you his arm all-cautious like, you drag your claws the whole way up the fleshy underbelly of it, watching his wriggler-soft flesh just give up and split like overripe berries. The fat in him actually starts pushing at the skin and making it bulge, and he jerks backward, a million hissed curses under his breath. You can smell his sudden panic, and it makes you grin. The way he’s sitting there in stupid stunned stillness makes his wrists easy targets, and you haul on him until you can get his fronds under him. When he’s near enough to the one beat-up relaxation platform in your hive you just drop him and he tumbles, rag-doll limp and with no grace in him at all. You switch your grip to just one hand for his wrists, brother ain’t even trying to pretend no more, fucker’s as motherfucking black for you as you are for him, and get right up in his face, just breathing deep his angry-scared-bloody scent for a second.

“I was thinking,” you drawl, watching Dave’s mouth curl in disgust as he tries to recoil from your closeness. He manages to keep the rest of his pokerface, which would be powerful amazing, if he was capable of impressing you. Undeterred, you continue. “‘Bout you, all every one of the fuckin’ you’s, how you walk all over these green motherfuckin’ bubbles like nobody else ain’t shit. ‘Bout how much better you’d all up and walk if someone just pinned you the motherfuck down and _fucked you right_.” You graze your fangs over the gouges you put deep into his arm, and your tongue comes out of your mouth like you got no control of it, slipsliding wet over his skin, licking away the blood welling hot and fresh out of him. When you tear your gaze away to look back at Dave, motherfucker looks downright horrified, and you smack your lips just to watch him squirm even more. Your candy-blooded kismesis has some _tasty_ miracles pumping through his veins. “Figured I’d better motherfuckin’ do it my own self, ‘stead a trusting some other fuckin’ body to.”

“Man, have you even talked to Rose? I bet she’d love to get her hands on whatever freaky complexes are kicking around in your nutzo head.” He sounds shaky. Even if the only thing that’s got him trembling is the blood puddling under his arm on the relaxation platform, he still sounds better than he did before you got your claws all in him.

“I ain’t much interested in meeting any-fuckin’-body but your insides right now, brother. Not much interested in anything but killing.”

Dave’s face drops back into his false fucking blank _mask_ , and you set your claws against his jugular warningly. “When a motherfucker is _black_ ,” you begin, tapping your rhythm out against the pulse of his bloodpusher, “When a motherfucker is _proper motherfucking black_ , ain’t nothin’ sometimes stopping ‘em from up and killing a brother, except that brother’s _own motherfucking self_.” The skin at the corners of his eyes tightens, and you bite back a satisfied hiss. Scared, he’s scared, and you know enough about seeing this human that you know a fucker gives in to _angry_ when he’s scared, and he’s everything you want in a kismesis and you _hate it_. You curl your hand up so your claws are pointed and dig in, like you’re about to tear out his windchute and everything else. “Could do it right now, easy as pie…” You close your entire hand around his throat instead, and he swallows hard, human throat lump bobbing like an apple in a bucket of water. “Crush you like the _motherfucking bug you are_.”

Dave finds his voice, then, pressing forward into your hand like he’s testing your strength. Them red lookspheres are blazing bright as a sun as he stares up at you, vivid as every one of your paints. He licks his bruised lips and you damn near grin when he grimaces at the way it stings. “I dunno, I think hiding the body sorta negates the easy part of murder.”

You squeeze his airway shut before he can continue, and his aborted words come out wheezed and mute. “You keep your motherfuckin’ mouth shut, and I won’t rip your nasty fuckin’ _heretic tongue_ out of your _pan_.”

The hacking sounds of someone choking start to give way to softer sounds- moans, like the little fucker’s _getting off on this_ -and you snarl, raking the claws of your free hand down his chest. The material of his shirt just up and gives like it wasn’t never even there, and Dave gifts you more of a present than any-fuckin’-body ever could because he moans, and you suddenly have all sorts of wicked knowledge up in your pan as to what he’s doing, letting you tear his ass to shreds instead of using his miracle powers to beat you bloody. He’s black for you in the way that he’ll fight until you start tearing, and then _let you_ , and you read all his bitching and protesting as the filthy lies they are and _know_.

You undo your pants with a lazy flick of the wrist. His eyes are on your hands, and you can read apprehension in every line on the motherfucker’s body, so you curl your fingers around his wrist and pull him off the relaxation platform to the ground. His face (purple bruises already shadowing his jaw, he looks good all painted up with marks of your righteous hatred) is exactly level with your bulge when you pull yourself over the waistband of your boxers, so it’s his cheek it smacks wetly against. He's already doing good, got warm tingles making soft little waves up your spine, and he ain’t even opened his fuckin’ squawkblister again yet. You’ve finally got Dave on his knees in front of you, cosying up to your bulge like he’s good little _bitch_ , and all it took was a fucker up and hitting him. “I don’t think I even got to get my tell on at you about what the fuck I expect right now.” 

He grudgingly parts his lips, like he ain’t hard as sin in his motherfucking pants, and you jerk your hips forward with your hands tangled in his hair like he’s got handles on his thinkpan. Your bulge slithers the rest of the way into his mouth like it’s got a mind of it’s own, and you groan low enough in your throat it comes out as a downright _purr_. “Good with that dirty little heretic tongue you fuckin’ got.”

Your bulge twists up at the back of his throat, twisting all the fuck over to find a hole to press into, and you ain’t never seen a sight as filthy as the little blond motherfucker on his knees before you, all dazed and bleeding and trying not to choke on the bulge worming out of his nose. Your nook throbs something sharp, which makes you grind your hips into his face and _make him_ work you, and every one of his whimpers makes you feel like you’re all made up of wicked-sharp fangs and mirth. It’s an utter motherfucking _shame_ when you realize how close you are to dumping your genetic material all over his sinner’s face, and you draw back, your bulge twitching as it slithers out of his throat. Wouldn’t be right to come this far and lose control right away. No sir.

You yank on his hair, dragging him up and depositing your limp kismesis chest-first over the arm of the relaxation platform, settling with his legs on either side of you easier than anything. He squeezes his thighs around your waist like he was motherfuckin’ made to have you between them, and you pet his hair affectionately (just once) like he’s the sweetest fuckin’ thing the universe ever up and spat out. Your bulge knows what you want from him before you’re even in a position to take it. The second Dave’s near enough, it wriggles into him, and then you’re grinding your hips against his ass to get yourself in deeper.

 _”Fuck,”_ he groans, all long and drawn out and deep enough to buzz through your pan and your hand where it’s on his throat, and you match the roll of your hips to the little thrusts he’s making until he moans for you proper. _”Gamzee.”_

You pull back a bit, just enough that it’s only the tip of your bulge squirming inside him, and then he’s making that pathetic strung-out sound all on his own, without your hand anywhere near his throat. “What’s wrong, my fine brotherfucker?” You rake your claws down his back, leaving four white stripes that slowly fill with blood in their wake, chuckling when his whimper pitches down into a full-throated moan. “You up and get all fuckin’ desperate and needy without letting a body know?”

“Just disappointed the ride’s so slow,” he manages to gasp. His voice is so infuriatingly level that you close your hands around his neck, anger sparking in your gut. You’ll show him what sass gets him. You’ll get his motherfucking _school feed_ on to him on what _mouth_ brings on him. 

He reaches up awkwardly, trying to pry your hands off his throat so he can breathe, and you snatch up a shiny steel pair of cuffs from your sylladex, catching his wrists in them before he can even touch you. “Keep,” you hiss, your voice spiked with enough murdertingles that your neck prickles, “your _motherfucking **silence**_.”

His head twitches like he wants to talk, (his head’s all you can see from here) but you growl and he thinks better of it- he lifts his hips instead, like he can distract you from your hatred with that, and you force them back down with one hand. “You just ain’t gettin’ it.” You shake your head like you’re almost _sad_ , and inch forward slow, almost more slow than you have the patience to do. “It’s my fuckin’ pace.” Shoving his face into the pillow is just punctuation for calling him names. “Bitch.” 

He’s tight around you, hot like a lowblood and squeezing like the best kind of vice, and your bulge writhes against his walls, forcing soft grunts from his lips with every pulse of movement. What a pretty motherfucking picture this makes. Bet nobody else in the whole of paradox space as got something so pretty.

It only takes you a second of actually pailing him to realize he just ain’t gonna make it as long as you want him to, and you dig your claws into his hips like it’ll actually be any fitting sort of punishment for fucking up your plans. Your bulge slides from Dave like his hole’s just as loose as his big fucking mouth, and you groan when he clenches on you the whole way. “You make such a pretty motherfuckin’ slut,” you croon at him, palming his cheek as he shudders. 

He hisses dissent- almost intimidating, even from a fragile alien like him- and you whip your club out of its rightful place up in your sylladex to lay a stripe of truth right across the blasphemer’s ass. He straight motherfuckin’ _whimpers_ , and you watch his ears turn so bright red that they could probably set a whole fuckin’ forest aflame. “Say it with a brother, now. Tell me you’re a pretty slut.”

You fist a hand in his hair and pull up til’ you can see his face, and he looks strained for tryin’ to breathe with his neck all fucked up. Still, his lips pull back, like the motherfucker’s got something to be all smiling about, and you dig your claws quick into the soft flesh of his thigh. (The skin starts to break like it was fuckin’ aching for it, and you grin to yourself.) “Don’t make me hit you again. I sure-the- _fuck_ will.” Your claws leave him so the club can tap lightly against the back of his thighs (to remind him you’re not under the filthy fuckin’ habit of makin’ lies), and you watch him struggle to find his motherfucking bravado with a vicious sense of satisfaction. ‘S right. Just took longer than what every other body you’ve ever played at subjuggulating them took, is all. Even, praise messiahs, even _Dave Strider_ could be taken down.

You rear back and deal him three solid swats from the club in rapid succession, and his hips jerk so powerful quick the whole relaxation platform squeaks. There’s no missing that his fleshy human excuse for a bulge is stiff and standing tall between his legs, not from where you stand at the side of the scene he makes. You close your hand on it-claws still painted at the tips with bright spots of red-and give a long pull. Dave’s reaction goes straight to your bulge, all made of moans and gasping, and you lean down to catch his pink, pink lips with your fangs while they’re still parted.

“Fuck,” he manages. “You’re so batshit you can’t even figure out if you hate me or not.” His accusation doesn’t stop him from clinging to you (with fingers that bite bruising-hard into your wiry shoulders so you growl) and biting at your lips. There’s pleasure shuddering through him, and he’s working his hips against the platform he’s pinned against. “Fuck me up or fuck me, whatever, but _get on with it_.”

It ain’t more than a motherfucking thought to clock him in the head with one of your scarred-up fists, and the curse he bites out is so startled you laugh- and then laugh some more, the whole time you’re dragging his skinny little fronds out, yanking off those obnoxious too-tight godpants and making him full bare. “Trust me brother, I’ll do you right in all the ways.” You lean over his lithe body again, and sink your teeth into his neck, just let the voodoos do the talkin’ for you. “I’ll fuck you up _good_.”

You can hear the rhythm in your head before you even reach back to paddle Dave’s impudent fuckin’ ass, so it ain’t a bother any when you slap him and his hips jerk forward. Your next smack catches him as he’s twitching backward, and he starts up whimpering like a motherfucking chorus. “Open your mouth,” you order sharply, every word spit with an un underlining slap. “Pry apart your dirty blaspheming lips. So I can get my _hear on_ to you.”

Leaning back does you the pleasure of letting you see Dave’s whole back at once, and you drag the blunt end of the club over the red stripes on his ass, lookspheres full of every shiver that runs its trembly little fingers down his back. His knuckles make white punctuation marks in an arch over where his wrists are all locked up tight, and you watch them clench even harder with every new strike of the club. The first marks you left are starting to turn into these firm raised welts where the divots fucked him up extra between all these vivid crimson blooms of broken blood vessels under the skin; he moans nice and loud when you come down hard on them in the opposite direction.

You watch his ass and thighs all puff and turn pink under your care with enough interest that your bulge has up and wrapped around itself for stimulation before your arm is even tired, and Dave might have his miracle-bright eyes full of tears, but he takes a backseat to the long overdue sensation of running a hand over yourself. “ _Fuuuuuuuck_ ,” you groan, low and long and hungry. “That’s good shit. You make a good fuckin’ bulgetease.”

His mouth looks like it wants to talk, but all that spills out is tight little breaths, like he don’t want to let them go. You run a cool palm over the curve of his cheek and squeeze until he squirms some more. “All this p-pausing and _fucking_ pondering shit makes you look like an a-actual psychopath,” he informs you.

You got that jaw ache of a grin on again, the one you know what puts both sets of fangs on full display. “Who says I ain’t, brother?”

You slap Dave’s thighs once more with the length of the club, and then lay it back out in your sylladex. (Gently; it’d be a motherfucking sacrilege to break a club that broke-in.) He shudders in the sudden stillness, back heaving with the effort of catching his breath, and you trail your fingertips over the welts on his ass just to watch him twitch. 

He doesn’t disappoint; a gasp escapes him alongside a hissed curse, and you see his wrists flex in the cuffs. He shivers over and over, every time you drag your fingers against his reddened skin, and when his thighs flex beneath you, you curl your fingers and dig your nails into his flesh, slicing a fresh furrow through firm welts. “If I wasn’t such a learned motherfuckin’ fine troll like myself, I’d say a brother was enjoying himself.” You don’t have to look down to know Dave’s dick is twitching between his legs, and you reach around to curl your fingers around it, claws set lightly against his skin. “If a fucker wasn’t _educated_ , he might say a brother fuckin’ _liked this_.”

You don’t wait for his response to move—be a sad fuckin’ excuse for a response anyways, still got pain prickling in his eyes like stardust—just reaching down to raise his ass a little higher, so you can get right close to his body before you fill him up with your bulge, this time _proper_. He groans like he’s giving up, and the way he presses back against you makes you moan loud enough his shoulder’s gotta be the thing to quiet you. 

A human cumming is a lot more exciting than a troll, you think. They all still got that cute flush, the arching, but his not-bulge spouts white genetic fluid like a goddamn fountain instead of just gushing like a broke faucet—Dave’s muscles all tense like a motherfuckin’ ripple rolls right through him—and you growl and sink your fangs into the slope of his neck until you’re cumming too, painting buckets down the bedsheets and staining the insides off his thighs bright purple. He’s got his hand wrapped around his junk and he’s working it like he wants to wring himself dry of genetic material. You wrap your fingers around his and help, like your claws ain’t diggin’ into the back of his hand, and the last sticky little mess of his slurry smears on the cushion when he flops down on top of it. 

“Fuck,” he says eloquently.

You look around the fucked-up bubble—the blood streaked on the wall and the floor, the deep purple splashed up on the carpet, the utterly wrecked-looking human on the relaxation platform—and nod nice and slow, warm fulfillment making its happy self at home in your thorax. “Fuck indeed, my blackest of hatemates.” 

The crooked lip he gives you couldn’t be mistaken for a friendly one if you was blind, and you press your thumb into the bruise on his jaw when you lean down to help him up. The pile you set up earlier is only a couple shuffling staggers away from your relaxation platform, and Dave groans thankfully when he sees it’s been made for humans: ain’t a motherfuckin horn in sight, there’s so many blankets and puppets and pillows.

You help him sink into the pile at your feet, and even if it’s probably the most depraved thing you’ve ever done, you follow him down and join him. Ain’t no laws what say a pile post-fling can’t be a thing. You’re supposed to take care of your kismesis, same as in any other quadrant. And if there’s one thing you ain’t, it’s a motherfucking clown who _blurs quadrants_.

You know his comfy motherfuckin’ pajamas mean your welts ain’t gonna last past the next day (just have to make them brighter next time), but you still offer him a cold faygo from your sylladex. If you ain’t the one hurting him, it shouldn’t be up and happening. Dave accepts it gratefully and thumbs over one of the welts on his thigh, miracle-bright eyes on you again, and when his mouth moves, you let him have a talk at you proper instead of shutting him up halfway through (or fucking him into wordlessness again) for the first time since he walked into your bubble.

“So... same time next week?”

**Author's Note:**

> This came out a little more rape-fantasy like and less "Dave pretending he isn't enjoying himself", but I hope you enjoy it anyways! This fic came with four days of hair-tearing before it, but it was so much fun to work on I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
> 
> (If you haven't read [ Price of Forgiveness](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1752749), you need to now, because that fic is the entire reason I write Gamzee the way I do.)


End file.
